cherie writes: “What brings you to these parts little lady?” a St. Croix local in a cowboy hat asked me.

I blushed at the term “little lady.” Or I was already getting sunburned? It reminded me of a time in my life when I was “too mature” for such affectionate names.

At a former job, a guy named Fred used to call me “pumpkin.” Pumpkin? ‘He doesn’t respect me,’ I thought. I took myself very serious in those days. One day I told Fred flat out: “I’d prefer if you don’t call me pumpkin anymore.”

“Okay,” he said and walked away.
‘That was so easy,’ I thought. ‘Why didn’t I say that before?’
The next day Fred walked into my office and said: “Hi muffin.”
The St. Croix cowboy stuck out his hand and said: “My name’s Scooter.” Then he pulled out a business card to prove it.

I love unique names. In life, people must become at least as interesting as their names.
His harmless name also put me at ease. You can’t be an axe-murderer and be named Scooter.

“Did you come here just to see the beer drinking pigs?” Scooter asked.

“Don’t call yourself a pig,” I joked.

Scooter continued. “St. Croix is a special place. We have pigs that drink beer. Not real beer anymore. The environmentalists came in and made us change it to non-alcoholic beer. But those pigs sure love beer,” Scooter said ordering himself another one.

Scooter was speaking straight to my heart. Some people let powdery beaches and hammocks define their vacation—I look for the quirky things an island has to offer.

Poor fat J.J can’t keep up with the tourists who pay $2 a beer to see him guzzle. So now Oreo helps out and downs a few beers of her own.

J.J. was sleeping when we arrived. We didn’t have the heart (or the crane) to wake him up. It made me sad to see an animal passed out, surrounded by empty beer cans. So we decided to let the pig sleep and we became beer drinking pigs ourselves.